


Purple cabbage, potatoes, and more apples than healthy

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: 16th & 17th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Kit being very very dramatic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>there is dinner, and it's a Wednesday, and this cannot end well, except from how it kind of does</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple cabbage, potatoes, and more apples than healthy

It's a Wednesday, and Kit doesn't like Wednesdays much. Partially because they are in the middle of the week, and therefore too far removed from the preceeding weekend to still be hungover and exhausted and what would count for happy in a normal person, and partially because they are too far still from the next weekend so that the anticipation would take care of the normal, every-day tiredness that comes with trying to study more subjects at a time than any reasonable person should.

And because it's a Wednesday, and because Kit doesn't like them, when he gets home after his last class of the day, something is happening. Something that is almost loud enough to be worrying, and something that also smells vaguely of apples. And because that wouldn't be annoying enough in its own right, it also smells vaguely of detergent and soap, and not Kit's own at that. He's got visitors.

Well, one visitor, judging by the pair of worn out, brightly coloured sneakers in the hallway. He will never quite understand Will's refusal to wear shoes inside residential buildings, but he did learn, rather quickly, too, that in the interest of avoiding that debate, he should just take of his own shoes as well.  
And so he stands there in the hallway, schoolbag hanging awkwardly on his shoulders, more books under his arms, leaning against a wall, trying to untie his shoes without falling over, dropping a book, or accidentally breaking something. It takes him a few minutes, and he has to set down some of his books, but he manages without any embarrassing incidents.

The noise still hasn't stopped, and now that Kit is actually inside and not currently distracted by the mysteries of shoelaces, he realises that it's probably music, combined with intermittent singing, occasional cursing, and undetermined background noise that might almost sound like someone trying to cook something. Which would explain the faint smell of apples. Sadly enough, it would also unexplain almost everything else about this situation.

Kit resigns himself to finding out, and then stalls another few moments by finding the Birkenstocks that made their way into his flat a few weeks after Will showed up, because he might be willing to take off his shoes for the sake of avoiding an argument, but he knows what the kitchen floor looks like, and he doesn't want any of it sticking to his socks.

The kitchen, predictably, looks just as terrible as it did when Kit left for university this morning. The precise location and nature of the terribleness had shifted, to absolutely none of his surprise, but some mild horror. The kitchen, contrary to its natural state, is clean and tidy. Apart from a vortex of chaos at whose centre stands a boy slicing cabbage. Purple cabbage.

Kit doesn't want to know. Mostly, he wants to hide in his room and wait until his visitor has left again. But on the countertop, there is an open bottle of something alcoholic, and Kit is not in a state of mind to resist that. He reaches for it, and then finds himself in the rather curious situation of someone slapping his fingers. With the flat side of a heavy, wrought-iron knife.

He looks at the bottle, at his fingers, at the knife, and then finally at the boy wielding the knife.  
"That's mine. Yours is in the fridge. But first, set the table," he commands, not even looking at Kit before returning to his cabbage. Kit is momentarily stunned, then offended, and then goes to find plates and cutlery. He should probably stop calling Will a boy, even in his own head. It's been a while since they first met, and Will has lost nothing of his puppy-like enthusiasm. He has, however, lost quite a lot of the baby-faced, uncertain, forever apologetic child he's spent the first few weeks being. And he has realised that his plans, however strange and terribly thought-out they might be, tend to be a lot more practicable in the long run than any that Kit might ever come up with.

And so, even though they are almost the same age, Will has somehow become the voice of reason in their strange rivalry. Will is the one who occasionally shows up and makes sure Kit eats proper meals, with vegetables and everything. Will is the one who occasionally reminds Kit that laundry is a thing that needs doing. Will is the one who somehow keeps Kit's flat from becoming too sticky, chaotic and uninhabitable. Kit, on the other hand, is the guy who gives Will excuses to try all the things he's never quite dared to do, the one who drags them out to foolhardy adventures and nights spent sobering up in prison. It's a strange partnership, but so far, it seems to be working wonderfully for them.

The plates are exactly where they should be, in the cupboard over the sink, along with glasses, bowls and cups. And the cutlery is in the drawer to the far right, sorted neatly and somehow not preventing the drawer from being opened. Kit sometimes thinks that Will has some sort of kitchen magic. But maybe it's just that Will's parents actually considered housekeeping a set of valuable skills, while Kit's parents tended to see housekeeping as something you can pay other people to do. Kit has tried exactly once to pay Will for making him dinner, and it's something he will never try again. Will hadn't liked it much.

But that's not exactly a moment Kit wants to be thinking about for too long. He might not have come to university with too good an understanding of how real life worked, and how people did things like friendship and affection, but he liked to think himself a rather quick learner. And he was fully aware of the extent of his emotional and social failings, so he didn't consider it too much of a problem in most situations of everyday life.

Sadly, most situations of everyday life did not include Will. Everyday life included full-time students, people studying sensible subjects like English and History and Law and Business. Everyday life included fifteen hours of classes a week, and doing as little homework as possible and writing last minutes essays for classes you didn't care about. Everyday life included alcohol and late nights and terrible decisions.

But Will, Will didn't do any of that. Will took 8 a.m. classes because he was awake and bored. Will wrote essays as soon as he possibly could. Will went to bed at ten on weeknights and at midnight on weekends. Will was the sort of serious, correct, well-adjusted, reasonable person Kit should have hated. And yet, one day the boy had showed up in a lecture about medieval love poetry, had sat next to Kit, and had started talking about dick jokes. And really, there was no way that Kit was going to let someone like that leave again.

And here they are, Kit setting a table complete with tablecloth and candles. Candles mostly because it would make Will blush and stammer and talk about romantic friendships and shifting perceptions of homosocial relationships. Kit knows that he has a crush on Will. He also knows that Will doesn't have a crush on him. And so Kit takes what he can get, mock dates over experimental dinners, lectures about platonic love, and more dick jokes than any single person should be allowed to make. It's exquisitely frustrating, and therefore a situation Kit enjoys more than is perhaps healthy.

And then the table is set, and Kit decides that now would be the time to get drunk. Will has apparently finished cutting all the various and sundry vegetables and other things that Kit can't quite make sense of, and is now busy poking various pans and occasionally stirring their contents. He is also dancing along to the music still playing on the radio. And Kit needs to be either somewhere far, far away or a lot less sober than he currently is. And if he's being honest with himself, getting away from Will has never really been a feasible option.

So he opens the fridge, takes out another of the brightly labelled bottles, and finds something to open it with. It's cider, the sort of sweet stuff Will likes so much, and it's probably not enough to get anyone but Will even slightly tipsy. Kit is willing to make the attempt, though. It's almost summer, and deadlines are moving closer and closer, and he's getting more and more tired, and so the situation really can't get any worse, from where he's standing.

Will turns away from the stove for a moment, tidies the small piece of countertop between sink and stove, and then motions for Kit to take a seat. Kit never quite figured out Will's thing about sitting on things not meant for sitting on, but he figures it's just easier to talk when Will doesn't have to turn back and forth between the various pots on the stove and Kit's attempts at conversation.

And so he sits there, his head leaning against the cupboards, idly kicking his feet against the drawers under the countertop, and drinks his cider, while Will mumbles something, pokes yet another pot, jerks his hands back as though he's touched something hot, curses, and then repeats the process again. There's something melting in one of the pots, turning progressively more brown, and more disgusting looking. There's another pot with the purple cabbage and bits of apple and potato that Kit doesn't understand, but doesn't mind too much. There's a pot with something or other that Will doesn't seem to be paying any attention to, and Kit therefore deems rather irrelevant, and then there's a pot with unpeeled, uncut potatoes that seems intent on overboiling as often as a single pot possibly can. Will seems to direct a fair bit of both cursing and mumbling at that.

But still, that strange brown substance. It's steaming slightly now, and Will notices the same moment Kit does, starts cursing vehemently under his breath, jerks the pot away from the stove, gets a carton package of something or other from the freezer, throws its contents into the pot, and starts stirring it again, never once breaking of his litany of 'fuck, fuck, fuck, I should have been paying attention, fuck, this is not the time to be distracted, fuck', and Kit would find it endearing, if he wasn't currently too busy being confused as to what exactly this is supposed to be and if it actually is fit for human consumption. He's not too good at having multiple emotions at once. It tends to end badly.

So he sits there, and drinks his cider, and watches Will cooking a meal that Kit would want to run away from very fast, if anyone but Will was cooking it.

There's a few moments of quiet, after Will has apparently managed to do whatever it was he was trying to do with strange brown liquid, and something that looks like miniature brains. The only reason Kit knows that those aren't, in fact, brains, is because he's handled brains. They're far more squishy than whatever is currently in that pot.

Will is currently poking the pot with the potatoes, in hopes of keeping them from boiling over once again, and Kit realises that he's managed to drink all of his cider while very resolutely not thinking about anything but the culinary value of mousebrains. He gets another bottle, and then gets a bottle for Will, too, because apparently dinner is finished, and did no one teach Kit that it's rude not to offer his guest something to drink?

Kit smiles at that reprimand, and manages to refrain from pointing out that Will had so far been perfectly capable of helping himself to everything else, and would therefore be perfectly capable of getting his own damn cider.

And when he turns to the table, Will had apparently managed to burn his fingers yet again in moving the four pots from the stovetop to the table, and since he wasn't cooking anymore, had settled for his usual method of dealing with small injuries to his hands, which was sucking on the injured digits while pouting the best he could with his mouth so occupied. Kit manages to swallow any embarrassing noises, sets the bottles and bottle opener on the table, and turns back to the cupboard under the stove. The one that holds not only the pans, but a varied and ever-changing selection of various alcoholic beverages. He needs something stronger to be able to cope with this.

"Hey, you can't walk away now, dinner is ready!" Will complains from behind him, and against his better judgement, Kit obeys and sits down. He does not, however, keep quiet. Because if he can't get drunk in order to deal with this, he might as well try to get angry. He doesn't like fighting, but it's still preferable over Will finding out about his crush, and then leaving, and then Kit would be all alone, and everything would be entirely terrible.

"This is not dinner. This is a horrormovie. With purple cabbage. What is this even supposed to be?" Kit manages, the frustration in his voice completely erasing any sort of lighthearted teasing.

Will seems to deflate at that. There's no trace of the bouncy, happy boy anymore. He looks as helpless as he looks defeated, and he starts apologising before he's even finished taking his fingers out of his mouth, and so the first few words are stumbling and slurred, and the rest doesn't fare much better.  
All that Kit can make out is something about 'I thought you liked my cooking' and 'I didn't mean to intrude' and 'I'm sorry'. The last one is repeated several times, and Kit doesn't know what to do with himself.  
So he sits down, and starts carefully arranging the strange food on his plate, trying to keep everything from touching everything else. There's potatoes, that have still neither been peeled nor cut. They look mostly harmless, though a bit strange. And then there's something that looks like rather reasonable stew, though with more vegetables than Kit is used to. And then there's the purple cabbage, that has somehow become even more purple through cooking, but doesn't look terribly threatening. The last part though, that's what is currently confusing Kit. It still looks like brains, and it's covered in some sort of sticky glazing, and it looks like something that should not be eaten by anyone, ever.

"Will you tell me what this is?", Kit tries finally, after staring at his plate has not sufficed to give him the courage to actually put any of the food on it in his mouth. Maybe it will seem a bit more appealing if he knows what it is that he's supposed to be eating.

"It's just food," Will tells him, not looking at Kit, and not remarking on Kit's choice of auxiliary verb.

"I can see that. But what kind of food?" Kit is not giving up. He isn't apologising, either, because he never apologises, and Will knows that. He just tries to make amends and move on.

"Food," Will says again, this time actually closing his eyes, in something that Kit isn't sure whether it's despair or merely exasperation. "Food that I made, specifically for you, because you've had a shit day, and because I thought you might like it, and because it's been too long since we've actually done anything together, and because you like food, and because I wanted to take you out for dinner, and because," he breaks off here, and Kit doesn’t know how to respond to any of it.

So he picks up his fork and starts eating. He tries the potatoes first, firmly telling himself that they have been very thoroughly boiled, and while maybe disgusting, certainly not dangerous. It takes about two bites for him to notice that apart from the peel, they are just like perfectly normal potatoes. And so he turns to the stew next, which tastes perfectly fine, and is therefore boring for the moment. And now he is left deciding between two things he really, really doesn't want to put into his mouth.

"It's just caramelised chestnuts. And red cabbage. I'm not actually trying to poison you," Will says quietly, and he sounds so defeated that Kit would have eaten the food, even had it turned out to actually be mousebrains.

The cabbage tastes vaguely of apples, and Kit is fairly certain that his teeth will be a rather interesting shade of blue for the next while, but it is surprisingly tasty, considering how purple it is. The chestnuts are just sweet. He's not entirely certain whether they're meant to be vegetables, or dessert, or something else entirely, but they taste mostly like caramel, and that's not something he will ever complain about. So he eats, and he even manages to tell Will that it's a wonderful meal, and then he actually says thanks, and Will looks as though Christmas had come early. That boy really is very easy to please.

And then Kit's plate is empty, and he doesn't know where to go from here, because something has shifted and then settled wrong a while ago, when Will didn't lie and joke, but instead gave an honest answer to a question Kit should never have asked. It's awkward, now, instead of frustrating, and Kit does not do awkward. It's one of the few things he has refused to do with something akin to consistency, and he is not about to change this now.

And so he does what he always does in situations such as this one, he leaves. Picks up his empty plate, and two of the pans, takes them over to the sink and starts doing the dishes. Which would probably be even more awkward, considering that there is such a thing as a dishwasher right next to him, but Kit doesn't really care about that. Will, judging by his badly suppressed laughter, does.

"Did I just make you feel sorry?" he asks, mirth plain in his voice. "Because that might be the first time you have ever felt sorry about something. Should I be flattered?"

Kit is certain that he is not blushing. He doesn't blush. Neither does he take the bait. He will not start flirting. He will not, because that would be a terrible idea, with terrible consequences. Instead, he keeps staring at the sink and hoping that Will will somehow get distracted by something and go away again. Or maybe one of them might get hit by a meteor. Or abducted by aliens. Or something.

Of course, this being a Wednesday evening, and therefore the worst moment of the whole week, none of this happens. Instead, Will lays a hand on his shoulder, softly and carefully, as though Kit was likely to be startled into running away. He's probably not entirely wrong in worrying about that. But Kit is an adult, and he will not run away. Because then the situation would very, very definitively be very, very awkward, and that is just not a viable option. He tries to relax his shoulders instead, and not do anything too embarrassing, like blush or faint or spontaneously combust. Or over-exaggerate his internal monologue.

"How drunk do I need to get you if I want to hear the truth?" Will asks, and Kit isn't sure what to tell him. Not very drunk, probably. But Will doesn't want to hear the truth, because that would just make everything very, very uncomfortable, and is therefore a terrible idea.

So Kit shrugs instead, and says, "There's nothing I'm currently lying about." It's not technically speaking an answer to Will's question, but maybe it will get him out of this conversation for another few minutes.

"But there is something you aren't telling me." Will says instead, and Kit realises his mistake. And really, he should know better than this. He should also be paying attention to the dishes that are currently being removed from his soapy hands and put into the dishwasher. But Will is just a bit too close for that, and the day has been a bit too terrible, and he just doesn't have the energy to actually do any of this. So he stands there, leaning his head against the cupboard over the sink, and waits for Will to go away again.

"Come on, you can tell me, I won't laugh," Wills says. And then there is a short moment where Kit is very pointedly _not saying anything_ , and then Will does laugh. "Okay, I might laugh. But I won't be mean about it."

Kit sighs. He does this in the most dramatic and artificial way possible, because he still has some dignity left. Not much, but still, more than none. "I think I might have made a mistake," he says, and then refuses to say more. Because he's Kit, of course he's made some mistake or other since they last spoke, and it might have involved more alcohol and nakedness than is appropriate for an university campus. It might also have involved some rather quick thinking and a wonderfully told lie about performance art and social experiments.

"When have you not made a mistake?" Will asks, more fond than exasperated, and Kit is willing to count it as a win.

He shrugs, because he is not going to admit that Will might be right about this. "This one might be worse than usual." He says instead.

"Worse, how?"

Kit tries to say something, and realises that he doesn't quite have to words to do so. He swallows a few times, and clears his throat, and tries a few times more. "This might not be excusable," is what he finally settles for.

Will doesn't say anything, but doesn't move away either. He does, however, put his hand back on Kit's shoulder.

"Also, it might sort of affect you, as well," Kit says.

Will still doesn't say anything. His hand doesn't move, either, and Kit doesn't know whether that's good or bad.

"But so far, no one knows about it."

Will sighs, and takes his hand away. "Look at me," he says.

Kit turns to face him, and tries very hard to keep any possible bad thoughts from showing on his face.

"Whatever it is, we can fix it," Will says.

Kit would almost believe him, if he didn't know better. "You can't fix this one," he says, and doesn't bother feeling offended about the sound of complete and utter disbelief that Will makes by way of a reply.

"You might not want to fix this," Kit amends.

Will shakes his head. "But will you tell me what it is, so that I can at least make that decision for myself?"

"I might be in love?"

At that, Will actually takes a step back. "Fuck no. Did you get her pregnant? Is she forcing you to marry her? Is her dad going to show up here and threaten to kill you?"

Kit might laugh about this in pretty much any other situation. But right now, he seems to have forgotten how. "Will," he says, actually uncertain for the first time tonight. He thought Will knew. He thought this was one of the things they just didn't talk about, because Kit is bad at talking. "I'm gay," he says, the same way other people might say "I just killed someone". Of course Kit has issues. Who doesn't, after all.

"And?" Will asks tentatively, as though he doesn't realise just how terrible this is all on its own. He's actually stepped closer again, which is rather strange, at least it Kit's experience of those kind of conversations.

"And I might be in love," Kit says, hoping Will would understand without the words needing to be said, so that he might leave here with at least some of his dignity intact, if the same can't be said for his heart anymore.

Will nods. "And?" he asks again.

"With you," Kit says, and barely manages to not make it a question.

Will looks at him for a long, long time. Then he takes a deep breath and says, "I'm going to kiss you now, if that's okay with you."

"Of course," Kit says, and before he can get a chance to add something stupid or ill-advised, Will's lips are on his, and it might not be a perfect kiss, but it seems they have plenty of time to practice.

**Author's Note:**

> there is a post going around, about imagining one's otp getting drunk and cooking together, and how that would be a terrible idea for will and kit to come up with, and i figured i might as well write it.


End file.
